


Make Pretty

by barbaricyawp



Series: Torture Tuesday [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: HYDRA forces Bucky to wear lipstick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: forced feminization, choking, walling, humiliation

They waited until Bucky was weak. Until he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. Until he couldn’t even stand without help. They waited until he couldn’t hurt him. They waited until he was compliant.

Then they sit him down in front of a mirror. They bring him a black tube. Bucky knows women. Bucky  _loves_ women. He knows what it is. Even before he uncaps it and screws the red to the surface. 

It’s lipstick. They want him to wear lipstick.

“Put on,” one of the Soviets orders. He pushes his hand against Bucky’s, forcing the lipstick closer to his face.

Bucky shakes his head. Twists the lipstick back down. “No,” he says.

The Soviets look at each other, coming to some sort of silent sadistic agreement. Then one of them pulls something from his pocket. A leather strap.

“No,” Bucky groans. “Not the fucking leash.”

“Yes, leash,” a Soviet confirms before looping the leash around his throat. 

He clips the metal around the strap itself. Forming a slipknot, so that every time he pulls on the end, it squeezes tighter around Bucky’s throat. Sometimes the clip will snag on the leather, leaving the loop too snug to breathe.

The Soviet gives a yank to the leash now. The metal clip digs into Bucky’s top notch of vertebrae. 

“Put on,” the Soviet insists. He pulls so hard on the leash that Bucky is lifted off his seat. “Make pretty.”

He grinds his molars. Holds his ground. “No,” Bucky repeats. “No lipstick.”

Bucky’s head is abruptly jerked down by the leash. His forehead collides with the mirror hard enough to crack the surface. Dazed, Bucky blinks into his own fragmented reflection. 

“Make pretty,” the Soviet insists again. The coil of leash is still in his hand.

“Nope.”

Bucky is flung into the mirror again. Then he’s yanked back into sitting. He coughs, choking for air now that his trachea is certainly bruised. 

As he splutters, a Soviet seizes him by the jaw. The lipstick is snatched from his hand and twisted all the way up. Bucky tries to curl his lips in, but they aren’t aiming for precision. The lipstick is applied messily over his mouth, a blunt, soft crush against his lips and skin.

When the Soviets are satisfied with the smear of bright red over Bucky’s mouth, they grasp him by the hair and force him to face his own reflection.

His neck is already a collared with bruises. The lipstick streaks up his cheeks and down his chin from struggling. None of this surprises him. 

What surprises Bucky is that he’s teary eyed.

“Come,” the Soviet with the best English says. There’s a quick tug on the leash. Bucky is led towards the hall by the neck, staggering on his feet. “We want to show you off.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by themagicaltyphoonlady, whom I adore.

“You know,” Rollins grumbles, ever the wet blanket. “Pierce isn’t going to be too pleased with this if he finds out.”

“Well,” Rumlow says, smearing pink lipstick over the Winter Soldier’s plush lower lip. “That’s why he’s not going to find out.”

Rollins goes quiet, sullenly watching as Rumlow finishes lipsticking the fist of HYDRA. To the Soldier’s credit, he is compliant while Rumlow rings his mouth with Barbie pink.

“All done,” Rumlow says after a couple coats of lipstick. “Don’t you look nice?”

Even Rollins can admit it’s amusing when the Soldier rolls his lips in to smooth out the coats. He gets a rush when Rumlow hands the Soldier a mirror to show him what he looks like.

The Soldier surveys Rumlow’s work. He turns his face from side to side. Observes the smudges of lipstick that surpass the edges of his lips. Then he sets the mirror down and frowns.

Rollins snickers. “He doesn’t like your make up skills.”

Rumlow grips the Soldier by the back of the head and rubs the lipstick off his lips with the heel of his palm. It doesn’t really get rid of the lipstick, so much as slather pink all over his mouth, chin, and cheek. 

A messy smear of lipstick, rubbed roughly into the Soldier’s pretty fucking face.

Rollins’ heart gives a singular thud in his chest. It’s not sexual attraction, at least he wouldn’t term it as such. The Winter Soldier is a machine. Frightening and apathetic. Rollins can appreciate seeing such a beast of a man made ridiculous. He wouldn’t call it sexual attraction.

He’d call it interest in a super soldier laid low.

“Here,” Rumlow says, thrusting the lipstick tube into the Soldier’s hand. “You do it then.”

The Soldier frowns down at the tube. “Make pretty?” he asks.

Rollins and Rumlow exchange a glance.

“Sure,” Rumlow says with a shrug. “Make yourself pretty.”

The Soldier’s entire body sags for a moment, and he hesitates before uncapping the tube. Strange. The Soldier rarely hesitates.

Carefully, and without a mirror, the Soldier uses the narrow point of the lipstick to outline his lips. He fills in the rest of the color with the flat end of the lipstick. Quicker and more skillfully than Rumlow applied it.

When he’s finished, the Soldier looks around for something. Not finding it, he ultimately presses his lips to the back of his hand. Rollins has seen his wife do that before with a tissue. She calls it blotting.

The end result is quite a sight.

Except for where Rumlow smeared lipstick all over his face, the Soldier looks…decent. Like he’s done this before. The Soviets must have taught him how.

A hot shudder rushes down Rollins’ spine, thrilling his entire body.

Rumlow must be feeling the same way because, silently, he lifts the Soldier’s muzzle–the black tactical mask that covers his whole face–and clips it in place. Sealing the lipstick inside.

“Alright,” Rumlow says, clearing his throat. “We’ve got a mission to complete.”


End file.
